Turn It Up!

Last week we celebrated VBS, also known as Vacation Bible School.  Every night we gathered at our church with over 200 children and gads of volunteers to jump and sing and dance and learn about how God is always with us, leading us, saving us, and then working through us to bring His Love and Light to the world.  Once again I got to teach faith skills to a group of children, Kindergarten through fifth grade.

One of the nights focused on the Israelites and the time they spent in the wilderness after God rescued them from slavery in Egypt.  During our faith skills time, we focused on how the Israelites grumbled and complained, and how important it is to let go of our complaints so that we can praise God instead.

I have been sitting with this lesson all week, ruminating on how true it is today, how its truth has been woven into the fabric of my life, how intricately it is linked to seeing God's power burst forth in our own lives.

I'm a practical girl.  I want to see what something looks like.  Theory is fine, but if it can't be translated into actual practice that I can wrap my life around, I'm not interested.  And when you are trying to teach the Big Truths of God to children, it had better be practical. 

During that night at while I taught faith skills, the Holy Spirit brought to mind a simple explanation of praise that is still bouncing around inside of me.  My children have taught me everything I really need to know about praise.

That sweet little one will hold me close at night.  Draped across my lap he holds me close and whispers, "You boo-ti-ful Mommy."

I try to stop and soak up the love, resting my heart in such simple grace.

My middle son jumps into life with both feet.  He is all in or not in at all.  But I love spending time with him because no matter how simple the activity, as long as we are together, he will always come away with an exuberant "That was awesome!"  I love hearing it!  I love sharing awesomeness with him, living the awesomeness together.

And my oldest child?  He is a thinker.  He is constantly reflecting on his experiences, learning from them, taking in the lessons, processing them with endless questions.  And sometimes out of his reflections, after the thing has passed, will come a simple, deeply felt, "Thank you for . . . ."

I treasure those moments.  Because they are rare in an active boy's life.  Because they come from a deep place.  Because they are pure gratitude.

I know life is hard.  I know in my bones how scary uncertainty can be.  I know what it is like to be surrounded by people, yet to feel agonizingly alone.  I know the pain of regret, disappointment, betrayal, rejection.  I know life isn't fair.  I know life is hard.

But what I have found is that no bad place is ever a match for God's Glory revealed in dark places.  Such Glory is always available to us.  God ushers His Glory into our lives as we praise Him.  In the praising we are promoted.

I don't know how else to say it.

As we praise Him, we are promoted to a better place.

As we focus our will and heart and mind on the simple act of . . .
--telling our Lord He is beautiful, seeking and seeing His beauty;
--enjoying His presence and work in our lives, responding exuberantly to His work, declaring His awesomeness;
--reflecting on How He has blessed us, offering a simple, yet deeply held, "Thank You;"
all that is life as we know it is immersed in His Greatness and His Goodness and things become different.

The seed of our transformation is planted, and nurtured, and watered in our praises.  We are changed.  And all around us begins to change.  Our hearts our opened to our Helper.  Our eyes are open to His Help.  Our ears are opened to His Voice speaking into our darkness and calling forth His Light.

And it's not about how we feel.  If we don't feel like it, do it anyway.  This is where the power is.  We push through what circumstances and feelings and the world is telling us to PRAISE HIM ANYWAY.  And when our praise is costly, because it is hard, when it is truly a sacrifice, because it doesn't come easy--God moves in a big time big way.  This is the thing the enemy does not want you to know.  This is the thing the enemy wants to avoid.  You praising God when the only way you can do it is by faith, since the feelings aren't there.

We see it in scripture all the time.  My favorite place is where Paul speaks of Abraham:

"No distrust made him waver concerning the promise of God, but he grew strong in his faith as he gave glory to God, being fully convinced that God was able to do what he had promised."  Romans 4:20-21

Abraham didn't start out strong.  But he grew strong as he gave glory to God.  His belief and trust in God grew strong as he honored, praised, and worshipped God.  It reminds me that when my faith is lagging, there is only one thing I need to do.

Turn it up!

The World Is My Canvas

 

One of our summer activities has been sidewalk painting.  To be honest, I think I have enjoyed it more than the boys have.  Last year I became the art lady for the pre-schoolers in my classroom.  The other teachers tackled the heavier stuff:  math, science, literacy.  I did art.  And Jesus.  And somehow I found a way to link the two.  I discovered something about myself in teaching little ones how to do various projects--there is a creative soul in me that needs to get out.  This summer I've had moments where I could learn what it means to do that. 

 

So while the boys lost interest in their sidewalk chalk spiders, I picked up a brush and began painting the sun.

 

Creativity never really originates with us at all.  In fact, our creative impulses are the reflection of a greater Creative Pulse giving Life to the whole world.  God's breathes into us, and we are created, we are made alive.  His idea of us came before we did.  I love the way the Psalmist explains this mystery:

For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother's womb.  I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.  Wonderful are your works; that I know very well.  My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth.  Your eyes beheld my unformed substance.  In your book were written all the days that were formed for me, when none of them as yet existed.  Psalm 139:13-16

It is wondrous to me to consider that the stuff of who I am came about with forethought and purpose.  Kind of like any creative endeavor I do.  Regardless of the medium of expression (it could be writing, sewing, drawing), I see it in my head first.  And then I set about bringing that idea to life. 

Consider this with me--God liked the idea of who we are so much that He had to give it life!

He just had to.  He couldn't imagine His world being complete without us in it .  And the making of us brings Him joy, to see us walking around in the world with all the expressions of self He put there brings Divine Delight.

But here's the big difference between God as Creative Spirit and us as creative souls:  When we complete a project, it is done.  When God gives us life, the creative endeavor has just begun. 

Ephesians speaks of this:  "For we are what he has made us, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand to be our way of life" (2:10).  Other translations say we are His workmanship; another says we are His masterpiece.  We are what His thought expressing Itself in love has produced.  And the perfect expression of His original Intent finds fulfillment in Jesus Christ.  AS we live and move and have our being in Christ, God's creative endeavor finds completion.

I love how the completion of our creation is found in the "good work" God also thought of ahead of time to have us to do.  Like puzzle pieces fitting together--

                The stuff of who we are--
                                                                 --perfectly matches the work God made us for.

How cool is that?

I begin to think that to understand the work God has for us, we also must understand and EMBRACE the design of who we are.

No more complaining about our quirkiness.  No more trying to be something we are not.  No more allowing someone else to remake us into a design they believe is better.

NO MORE GIVING OUR POWER AWAY.

That is heavy.

And oh so important.

Because here's the thing:  Since we are co-creators with God in this life we are called to live, His part can be excellently done while ours can be forever left undone.  The works God prepared are to be our way of life.  But we can always choose to live another way.  We can choose to try to be something we are not.  We could choose to not live into the purpose for which we are made.

And something Beautiful that could be never gets the chance to live.

John Wesley said "The world is my parish."  And I'm so glad he not just said it, but lived it.  He was made to be a pastor to the world, since the church in his day didn't want him.  And while not all of us are called into ordained ministry, every single one of us was Created in Love, by Love, and for Love.  God created us with Intent.  Part of that intent is the transformation of the world through the stuff of who we are.

It is more than okay to give expression to the deepest passions and creative impulses in our soul.  It's more than okay to paint our lives on pavement.  It is more needed than we know.  Not only is this world is depending on it . . .

The world is waiting.

They're Baaaack!

 

It's been exactly two years since I found them, those insidious little creatures that suck the life right out of everything they touch.  Holy cow, they are disgusting!  I am speaking of course of bagworms.  Two years they showed up and wreaked havoc with our landscaping, but brought some powerful insights along with it.   I was thinking the other day how nice our evergreen bushes look in front of our house.  They have grown lush and big.  They are a vibrant, deep green.  They look beautiful. 

A far cry from how they looked a couple of years ago.  Bagworms had invaded one of our bushes and left a hole where green was supposed to be.  It seemed like every day that summer I was finding new cocoons, trying to pull all of them off before permanent damage could be done.  I discovered in my perusal of the internet that one of the best remedies to apply was soapy water.  Each pinching session ended with a good spray-down of water and dish detergent.  Persistence paid off;  eventually they were gone.

And then the other day I noticed it.  One isolated cocoon growing on our otherwise beautiful bush.  I began a careful perusal of the whole thing.  Sure enough, back where no one could see, there was a whole nest of them, camouflaged in the very foliage they are destroying.  Let's just say I set to work once more!

The last infestation we had was more in your face.  The attack was right out front, hard to miss.  This one was hidden, tucked away behind the lush beauty of outward health.  It snuck up on us.  Both times speak to me of the spiritual battle we fight everyday. 

Two years ago I was learning to let go of a ministry God had miraculously placed in my lap, and just as suddenly led me away from.  In the grief and pain of learning to let go, the temptation to retreat into bitterness and despair was real.  In my face real.  Each day I had to choose God.  Sometimes it was about each minute:  what am I going to do in this minute?  Am I going to trust Him or not?

In some ways, temptation in the hard times is easier to recognize.  It is expected, easy to spot.  And in that sense, easier to fight. Yet in this season of my life, it is subtle, more hidden.  Harder to place and name.

What name does temptation go by when the biggest prayers of your heart have been answered?

I have been praying for God to do something amazing in my husband's life for years, to give him his heart's desire, to open a door for him where he could use his gifts, where he could experience joy and fulfillment.  And God has answered those prayers in amazing ways.  After years and years of praying God has been faithful, and answered in a way only He could. 

I am deeply grateful.  And so blessed that I got to participate in the unfolding wonder of God's work in Tim's life.  I got a front row seat to the miracle and was allowed by God's goodness to pray it through from beginning to end with every part of me.

In the lushness of this summer of answered prayer it is easy to lose sight of the rhythm of Grace.  Routines are topsy-turvy.  I am surrounded by little boys so much of the time.  When I am not, I have a hard time getting myself to the quiet place.  It is much more of a challenge to hear the Divine Whisper.  It would be so easy to glide through on the beauty of what God is doing in my husband's life and think that is enough.  I forget I still need God more than I need His long awaited answers to my prayers.

And this is the heart of the temptation I face now, when everything is looking up and our hopes are being realized.  The enemy would have me be complacent.  The enemy would sneak in and suck the life right out of me, wrapped in the very goodness of this new life God has given.  The truth is that the unsettledness within me is a gift.  The nagging feeling that I'm missing something is the beacon that gets me looking for God's Hand and Heart.  It points me to my true home.  Because my true home has more to do with the Word my Shepherd speaks to my heart each day than it does with the Word that has already been fulfilled. 

Just like I discovered the first time I faced this enemy, I have to be washed in the Word each day.  Once isn't enough.  Even in good times God's Holy Word in my life is like breath in my lungs.  Without it, even when the sun is shining and all the birds are singing, something in me dies.  I can't stand to be dead!  I want to be alive with every fiber of my being!

Because there is something in me that believes God isn't finished with me yet.  Even though we have had an amazing journey, something in me insists that it is far from over.  But I will never recognize the new road if I fail to listen to the new Word God is saying to me. 

And I feel like traveling on.

To see where this journey began, you may enjoy reading "Washed with the Word,"  from July 9, 2011.

Living the Dream

I didn't intend to be a runner.

And I'm not sure if an outsider would look at me and say, "yeah, she's a runner." 

Many runners have that svelt look, where muscles are etched out beneath skin stretched tightly across, revealing the architecture of a beautifully chiseled body.  That is not me.  I may run regularly, but I don't eat the way that gets that look going.  And I was tempted this swimsuit season to get a two piece.  But after trying a few on I found that rarely do they cover vertical C-section scars.  Mostly I run because it is prayer, it is joy, it is therapy, it is the thing that connects me in a positive way to the body I've always struggled with.

But it wasn't until yesterday that I understood the gift this running thing has become.

I started running about the time my husband and I started trying to have children.  The road to motherhood has been hard.  It did not happen for us the way we thought it would.  It took years to finally get pregnant.  Once we were able to have kids, the timing of it all put me in the A.M.A. club:  advanced maternal age.  I remember having a conversation with my husband about running when our children were very small.  I remember saying that I wanted to be physically active enough to enjoy my children, to be able to keep up with them as they got older.  I didn't want my age to keep me from living fully into their lives, sharing it the way I longed to do.

We had that conversation years ago.  I had forgotten about it.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday I woke to a body that decided a walking workout on the treadmill might be better than a run.  Because the whole day before I spent in the gym playing with my kids.  With Noah, my oldest, I played basketball, trying like crazy to make baskets, trying to keep him from doing the same.  My shot isn't as good as his, but I put up a pretty good defense.  Isaiah wanted me to run with him.  We ran around the gym's upstairs track.  He is fast.  But he's not used to running long distances.  Eventually we were able to run side by side, my endurance keeping me close enough to him so that we could experience running--together.  And my littlest boy, he just wants to kick a ball together.  Which translates:  I kick it to him; he kicks it in a different direction that sends me racing to stop it so it doesn't wind up in a teenager's pickup game. 

Here's the thing:  in all that activity, I was able to stay right with my boys.

Yesterday I realized that a years ago prayer had been answered.

The temptation is to take it all for granted.

When we send the prayers up, I have noticed that over time we tend to forget the prayers we pray.  It is Heaven's mercy, because sometimes the answers take a while to come.  Yet when the answer to a long held prayer comes, we can't help but feel joyful.  As I was running this morning I kept pondering these glorious answers to my running prayers, remembering lyrics to the Disney song:  "A dream is a wish your heart makes . . ."  This dream has come true.  It is a beautiful, sweet dream, that must be savored in the moment, that must be lived with robust attention and gratitude.  Because these boys are fast, and who knows how long I will be able to keep up with them.  Who knows how long they will even want me to.

The temptation is to put these fulfilled dreams on hold while I focus on working other dreams.

There are other things I believe I was made for.  But I forget that the most important thing I was made for is the Grace of this present moment.  Once the moment is gone, the Grace for it is gone too.  I don't want to run past it chasing what will come next.  I so want to receive this Grace now.  In all of its dizzying fullness. 

The Frame Matters

Have you ever noticed the way a picture frame can change how you see the picture it holds?

 

I've noticed this.  Sometimes I'll think a picture has no hope.  There is no way I can display it because it just isn't fancy enough, or it just doesn't look right with the decor.

But then I will find the perfect frame, and all the pieces seem to fit.  What once looked out of place now looks right at home.

With the right frame, things work. I notice something that was always there, but had escaped my attention. With the right frame, that tense thing inside of me holding its breath relaxes, and every part of my being exhales a big "ahhhh."

Frames matter to pictures.  Our frame of mind, frame of heart, frame of spirit, matters more.



How we see the world changes the world we see.

It may not be what you want to hear, yet I have witnessed this truth in my own life and in the lives of others time and time again.

One of the most powerful times I have experienced this was during the last year I served my first church.  I was young, only three years out of seminary, serving a large congregation as associate pastor.  The church was in turmoil under the senior pastor's leadership.  Friendships I had cherished had been painfully interrupted.  Dreams of sailing through ordination had been deferred.  It was a time of brokenness, pungent with pain and disappointment. 

During that season I was also fulfilling a contingency for ordination, seeing a counselor.  With all the upheaval going on, this requirement became more of a blessing.  I began to see how years of unresolved heartache were coloring my present perceptions.  As I found the courage to release the pain of the past, my present found new meaning.  I remember sharing with my counselor that I felt like the sun was rising on a new morning in my life.

That perception was a gift from God. 

I'm so thankful for it.  I'm so thankful for the Grace He gave to see that specific time period His way.  The truth was that in those desperate, lonely times, He was preparing me for a new life, a new ministry, new Hope that my physical eyes could not yet see, but my spiritual eyes were beginning to perceive.  I could have ignored, denied, discounted, or in all other sorts of ways deminished the truth God was showing me about the life I was living.  And in doing that I could have missed the opportunity born from the ashes of an old dream dying.

It is a hard truth to hear sometimes.  Because the world we live in is not always hospitable.  Because sometimes the days are dark.  Sometimes everything within us wants to run away and hide.  But I know that the only perspective we need is the only one that really matters:  Heaven's. 

I have seen persons who have suffered immeasurably have the faith to trust God in true ugliness.  Circumstances that take the breath away.  Their faith, their decision to act as if God is everything He says He is, made a difference in the outcome of their circumstances.  In the face of tragic loss, unspeakable abuse, I have seen these courageous persons not allow their feelings to rule their hearts.  Instead they have allowed God's tender grace space to live within their hearts, regardless of how ragged or broken they were.  These souls are my heroes.  They inspire me to hold on.  They challenge me to not allow the details of my circumstances to blind me to the Presence of Grace surrounding me.

This is the frame we most need:  the one that holds unswervingly to Truth, that seeks it at all costs, and believes it beyond the feeling of the moment.  This is the frame that changes the picture we see.

Making Summer Beautiful

 

Phineas and Ferb's song is playing in my heart and mind:

 

"It's summer, and where do I begin?"

 

I'm afraid I will spend so much time trying to answer the question that summer will slip through my hands, and I will be left with emptiness where I longed to have joy-filled memories.

 

I want to write my summer story with beauty, full of grace, laughter, fun.  I want to make memories that will etch themselves into my children's minds, recalled twenty years from now around the gathered family table as "remember that summer that we . . . ."

 

Oh I want them to remember. 

 

And I want this time to be filled with things worth remembering.

 

Maybe this figuring out the summer doesn't have to be all that complicated.  Maybe I don't need to be a crazy fanatic mom that schedules every moment.  Maybe I can keep it simple.  Maybe I can have a plan that's attainable, that doesn't get in the way of actually doing something worthwhile.  Maybe that can be my plan--every day do something worthwhile.

 

Maybe it's as simple as being available to the worthwhile thing that knocks on my door.

 

Last weekend my neighbor rang the doorbell with this package of crayola sidewalk paint in her hands.  She said she was cleaning things out in her house and thought the boys might be interested in having it.  We agreed.

 

 

Monday afternoon we set to work.  Jeremiah and Isaiah joined me outside.  We dipped and poured and dabbled.  We created.  I have to admit, it was fun for me too.  What I discovered was that the best pictures were made as we worked together. 

 

 

 I made the outlines.  Butterfly, check.  Cross, check.

 

The boys filled in the pictures, using their imaginations to bring sketches to life.

 

 

 

Isaiah thought the pictures needed to be connected.  He used his brush to connect them.  I love how Jeremiah's blue doodles on the pink and yellow cross looks like a flower. Surprises everywhere.

 

When Isaiah got to the cross, he decided to make another one, so that the first one wouldn't feel alone.

What I learned is that it's not so important what we do this summer, as long as we do it together, making sure I leave room for those boys to teach me, as much as I want to imprint a life worth living on them.

Maybe the imprint that matters most of all is seeing the moments we share as gift, enjoying each one:  entering into the Joy of the One who gives them all.

 

 



Prayer Changes Things

 

 

Last week I had the most extraordinary experience.  It was one of those things that I missed in the moment, but upon reflection, I got it.  Kind of like the disciples who met Jesus on the road to Emmaus and didn't even know it.  Later that evening, they recognize Him in the breaking of bread.  And then they say to one another, "Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, . . .?"

 

 

A sweet young couple came to visit me.  These two had been in my care as college students.  The campus ministry where I served is where they met.  It is where they fell in love.  They married and began walking their life journey together from that shared sacred place, much like my husband and I did twenty years before.  On this visit they brought their baby, my first opportunity to see her.  I rejoiced as I held her in my arms, in the middle of my messy living room, my own messy boys looking on with curiosity, my own messy life spilling all around us in exuberance.  This young couple had walked with me through those crazy times when my children were very new to this world.  And as they spoke about their experiences, it tickled me to think that God gave them a front row seat to my own adventures in early parenthood so that maybe they wouldn't be so undone by it all.  I think they are sometimes undone anyway.  Nothing has a way of undoing us like holding a vulnerable life, completely entrusted to our care,  for the first time.

 

It did not dawn on me until they left that the last time we stood together in my living room,  there was no baby to ooh and ahh over.  Instead there was a difficult journey seeking earnest prayer; empty arms longing to hold new life.  They had come and we prayed that God would open the door for them to be parents.  The same place where we prayed was the same place where the answer showed up smiling for pictures.  I am undone.  I got to hold the answer to their prayers, to our prayers, in my arms.  In the same exact place where that prayer was sent forth.

 

I know that Holy Spirit conviction in my bones, of being reminded that prayer really does make a difference.  Seeing some big prayers in my life land, after YEARS of earnest praying, pleading, begging, has shown me the importance of remembering WHO it is after all, that I'm praying to.  God is so faithful.  He has a way of showing up wherever and whenever He desires.  But He loves most of all to show up in our living rooms.  In the ordinary stuff of our deepest held hopes and dreams.  The longings that don't go away, even in the space of time elapsed.  Even in the expanse between desire and fulfillment.  And what I love about HIM is how He is paying attention to the details, answering in a way that can only be done by ONE who--knows--it--all.  Remembering stuff we don't even pay attention to, and then re-member-ing that sweet detail back into the answer He sends, showing us in an unmistakeable way that only He hears our hearts in all their inexpressable ache. 

 

It is why we must not give up, must not give in, must not succumb to doubt, discouragement, and despair.  It is why we must continue to give the contents of our heart into His hands and give ourselves into His meantime care.  It is why in the face of inexpressible disappointment and grief we must continue to call out to the only One who can hear the undertones of what we cannot utter.  He hears it all; He answers it all.  In timing only He can understand and that His wisdom reveals. 

 

I'm just so thankful that my sweet friends did not give in and did not give up on Him.  And that they allowed me to see His goodness pouring all through them.  In my living room.  Just where I am.  Just where I most need to remember that He is not done with me yet.



Joy In The Morning . . . .

Two weeks ago I saw this . . .

 

. . . and I wrote this:

I saw the most beautiful sunrise during my morning run. Orange melting into purple melting into red. Deepening color spread across the horizon; unseen sun casting pink hues on everything. Those are the colors that speak to me of joy.
 

Since then it has been sitting in my spirit, brimming and brewing, a Word from the LORD--"Joy comes in the morning."  Psalm 30 whispers, echoing within me, "You have turned my mourning into dancing; you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy."  I have sensed a transition happening, as season gives way to season.  The wisdom of Ecclesiastes tells us that "to every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven."  I can hear the Beatles singing, "turn, turn, turn."

Time is turning, seasons melting into one another, like colors blending themselves across a morning sky.  The dark of night, of lingering weeping, is drawing to a close.  The grief of loss is passing and the sting of hurt subsiding, and into the dark night of this soul Light is forthcoming.

What we do in the dark days matters.  What we realize least when our hearts are bleeding and we go from day to day weeping is that each tear that falls to the ground takes with it a seed.  And in our weeping we are planting things that are only revealed by the lighting of a new day.  We are sowing in our sadness.  And even in the sorrowful times we have a choice.  We can sow more sadness to be reaped as regret and wastedness later on.  Or we can sow the seeds of Hope.  Of Joy.

Here's the thing. 

I never believe God sends the heartache and utter devastation that drives us to our knees.  But He sends forth His Word in all seasons, those seasons when everything is lovely and beautiful, and those seasons when all is darkness as despair.  His Word comes to us.  What we do with His Word makes all the difference.

 

Even in despair we can be the fertile soil that allows the Word of goodness to be planted in us, taking it in to the darkness of  our broken soil ever so thirsty for living Water.  We can let our hearts hope in that Word until it begins to take on Life within our lives, and we see how it lives and breathes.  And we can see that tender Life springing within bring us back to life.  When that Word is mature within us, the Light emerging after the dark night reveals something ripe for bearing all kinds of beautiful, delicious fruit.

 

Or we can be bitter, hard, crusted over so that nothing penetrates.  No kindness, no comfort, no balm to the spirit.  We can remain cold and distant, disconnected.  So self-isolated that even when the Word falls soft upon our wretchedness we remain untouched, and the winds of disappointment whisk away the very thing meant to bring us back to to the land of living.  We allow our bereftness to become barrenness, spreading its way to every corner of our empty selves.  When the Light of day comes there is nothing waiting within us to greet it.  The wastedness of our sorrow has born a wasteland in our souls.

 

We cannot choose the thing that brings us to grief. 

 

But we can choose the thing that grief will bring us to.

 

This is God's promise for loss entrusted to His Hands:

 

Psalm 126

When the LORD restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dream.  Then our mouth was filled with laughter, and our tongue with shouts of joy; then it was said among the nations, "The LORD has done great things for them."

The LORD has done great things for us, and we rejoiced.

Restore our fortunes, O LORD, like the watercourses in the Negeb.  May those who sow in tears reap with shouts of joy.  Those who go out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, carrying their sheaves. 



Spring Fever

I've had this post on my heart for a while.  And it seems that life has been hairy and crazy and busy and full.  And where is the Holy minute to write?  And then the unholy explodes into our lives and we wonder, do we even have a right to feel hopeful? 

I've pondered this.  A lot.  And perhaps my delay has not been an accident.  Because I believe the most radical thing we can do in the face of the unholy is to be children of Holy Light, those who shine in the darkness regardless.

So this Hope and Joy does not shrink back from the darkness that rages against the Light.  Instead the Spirit whispers--shine more . . . .

I've spent two years walking through my own sadness, grief and loss.  It seems one morning, I'm not sure exactly which one, I woke up happy.  For two years I could not honestly say that about myself:  happy.  But now, today, I am.

I look outside and see everything coming to life again.  And I think--That's me!  I'm coming to life again!  I am hopeful and joyful and not the kind that holds fiercely to God's Promise of Hope with blind faith because nothing feels hopeful and joyful.  Not the kind of joy that holds hands with sorrow.  I'm so grateful for that kind, because it kept my feet moving when I thought I would die.  But this Joy and Hope I feel are alive, bourgeoning within me, spilling out in creativity that is teeming with color and beauty and NEW LIFE. 

I know it is just a matter of time.

Before what is inside of me will be visible on the outside of me, birthed into reality.

I am so excited, I can hardly stand it!

The last two weeks we have been talking about Creation in Chapel with the pre-schoolers.  I even made up a song to help us remember all that God did when He created the world--"On the first day of creation my True Love gave to me, Light to make our darkness bright."  I just got it this morning that to live in the flow of Creative Energy, to release it into existence, to take that thing that inspires you and give it expression in the real world, is to truly participate in God's Holy Order, to bring forth His Kingdom, to not only live as a child of the Light but to walk in the Light.  To give expression to God's Creative Purposes for our own lives is the most darkness-shattering thing we can ever do.  Because to live in creative Joy is to truly be Fearless.

I have lived in fear for far too long.  Dwelling for far too long in shadows, hiding my quirky self from the world, because I am just too different from anything else I've ever seen.  What was He thinking when He made me?!  And why, oh why, oh why, oh why Father would you make me like this?!  I have often felt like that tiny purple flower in the middle of a sea of green, so small and fragile.  Difficult to be seen.  Impossible to take seriously.  And I have asked the Lord so many times, "why didn't You just make me another blade of grass?  My life would have been so much simpler.

For the first time maybe, I am so glad I am what I am.

And I believe that soon I will see God's purpose for me revealed.

And that gives me tremendous Hope and impossible Joy.

Easter Morning Grace

I am waiting for the meatballs to brown.

When I asked Nanny, Tim's Mom, what she wanted to do for Easter as a family, I mentioned my own family's traditional Easter meal:

Italian--

I remember as a child my mom making spaghetti and meatballs for Easter dinner.  It's the meal I make just like my mom did.  And every time I put a bite in my mouth, it feels like Easter all over again. 

In the last few days I've thought much about the Easter story.  The gift of God's Grace is that the Old, Old Story has a way of becoming New, over and over again.  And to be telling the Story of redemption to little ones this year has deepened it within me, in a way I had not anticipated.

It took me years to wrap my head around Jesus dying on the cross, but after my last child was born, God helped me understand in a way that cuts right to the heart of me.  All three of my children were born by C-section.  The last required a vertical incision that streches up my belly.  The scars from all of them now form an anchor on my abdomen.  Sometimes when I look in the mirror I laugh and tell myself, "the anchor holds."   I have no idea what natural childbirth is like.   I know well the disappointment and pain of a plan not at all working out the way you think it is supposed to.  That's the way I thought of the cross for years.  Surely there had to be a better way for Jesus to go home to His Father.

And then one day I held my sweet baby boy and heard this Whisper in my heart:  "Was he worth it?"  I knew what God was asking me.  Was it worth it to me to have my body broken so that this child could have life?  "Of course he was worth it," I said back to the Whisper.  "So are you," came the reply.

The Gospel of Mark tells us that when Jesus breathed His last, the curtain in the temple was torn in two from top to bottom (15:38).  The curtain is the thing that separates the Most Holy Place from everything else in the temple.  It is there, from the early days of the Tabernacle, that God would meet with His people (Exodus 25:21-22).  And yet the high priest could enter the Most Holy Place only once a year, and then only sprinkled with the blood of the sacrifice.  When Jesus was  broken, the power of His Gift of Himself ripped that veil in two, from God's end to ours.  As a consequence, we can enter into the Holy of Holies; God has made Himself accessible.  Through the broken Body of God's Son, we are born into New, Eternal, Abundant Life. 

Here is the part I love--

Jesus did not stay broken.

Can it get any better than this?  Jesus does not walk around Heaven broken!  He is Resurrected!  And those scars, well--

My scars are precious to me.  Really?  Did I just say that?  But they are.  Only God can take something that represented the deepest hurt my body had endured and make it beautiful.  Only God can take the thing that I thought made me look hideous and use it to show me how beautiful I am to Him.  And someday when I get to Heaven I'm going to look at His Son's scars and see my name written in the nail prints on His hands.  Each one of us, our names are written there, because first we were written on His heart.  He looks forward to the day when He can show us in person how deeply His Love has been written all over our story.

The same way my love for my boys is written on my body.